Step off, Herr Inspector. And so polite, he thought. He dropped the snow and reached into his jacket pocket for his flask. The whiskey was wonderfully warm and immediately went to work. Four or five long pulls, and he felt fit enough to push himself up from the wall. It was only then, with his head clearing, that he began to consider the note. Someone had played him, someone who had known about K. More astounding, someone who had seen him at the Office of the General Staff this morning. No more visits to the file rooms. .
He was getting close, and he was still alive. There had to be something in that.
Hoffner found a taxi and told the man to drive. In his condition, he was not that uncommon a fare for this part of town, although four o’clock might have been a bit early for it. Even so, the man showed no surprise when Hoffner went back to the whiskey-his neck had begun to tighten-and by the time they arrived in Kreuzberg, Hoffner could move through the courtyard without drawing too much attention to himself.
Mercifully, the flat was empty. Wednesdays Martha spent with Eva: Herr Doktor Keubel taught at some dental college and gave his staff the afternoon off. Hoffner slowly got undressed and ran a bath. He noticed some nice discoloring under his right arm, which extended to his lower back, where it looked as if a thousand tiny veins had exploded below the skin. He had had worse-always in the company of Knig-but never as a threat. Hoffner recalled the early days when Knig’s quick thinking had helped them run down some of the city’s more unsavory types; or, rather, when Knig had relied on his own unsavoriness to expedite matters. The two had always given as good as they got, or at least Knig had. Hoffner still had trouble with his wrist from one of those encounters. Sitting back in the steaming water, he laughed at the thought of it, and his entire left side cramped.
It was a foolishness he had long since left behind. Why, then, he thought, was he now no less intent on following the case to Munich? Why invite the chance for another beating, or worse? It wasn’t ego. He knew he had nothing to prove to men like Braun; more important, he had nothing to prove to himself on their behalf. Crime had never been a game of one-upmanship for Hoffner. It was why he had never sent in that application to the fourth floor, and why his father had never forgiven him for it. No, there was nothing to prove to those living or dead.
Nor was there anything particularly noble in it. Hoffner readily admitted that he had never gone in for abstractions such as justice. It was simpler than that: action-reaction, choice-consequence. He left the moral scales to men like Jogiches. The only deeper meaning he sought was in seeing something through to its end, and the satisfaction he found when he had moved beyond it: fresh start, new map. The rest of his world had never been as clear-cut or as accommodating, and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Munich remained worth pursuing.
A draft of cold air blew in from the corridor, and Hoffner heard the front door closing. The water had grown tepid and he waited for Martha’s voice. “Nicki?” she shouted. “Are you home?” He had left his clothes in a line along the corridor: a direct path. The bathroom door squeaked open and she appeared. “What a lovely life you lead,” she said as she stayed by the door. She noticed the bruising on his chest, and her expression hardened. “What happened?”
Hoffner did his best to prop himself up. “Nothing,” he said. The water had done wonders, but not enough to make the movement less than strained. “I fell on some ice.”
She caught sight of his lower rib cage. “You didn’t fall, Nicki.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
There was a sudden sadness in her eyes, and Hoffner knew instantly where her mind had gone to: an angry husband or lover and just retribution. It was unclear, however, whether her pity was meant for him or for herself.
She let it go. “I’ve got some ointment,” she said as she started down the corridor. “Dry yourself off. We’ll put you back together.”
She was remarkably deft with the bandages, knowing exactly where to place them, how to press them up and around his ribs for support, and, except for the smell, the ointment was equally soothing. He had forgotten just how good she was with all of this.
“You and Victor gave me lots of practice,” she said as she tied off the last of the cloth. “How’s the wrist?”
He extended his hand to test it and, for just an instant, saw her tense as if she thought he might be reaching for her. He slowly brought his hand back and said vaguely, “Good. It’s good.”
She placed the kit in the drawer. “Are you here for dinner?”
“You were right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten myself involved with them. They’re the kind who like to use their boots.”
Whatever else she was feeling, Martha could never hide her concern. “Weigland’s men did this?”
“Best guess. They’d prefer it if I let the case go.”
She became more insistent. “And you’re going to do what they say, yes, Nicki?”
Hoffner marveled at her capacity to care for him, not for her own sake or for the boys’, but for him alone. He had never understood it. He imagined it made her feel weak, but he knew it was anything but that. Her only weakness was that she lacked the courage to ask him if he loved her, and that was a shame. He had never told her, and that perhaps was worse.
“It’s my case,” he said. “It ends when it ends.”
He saw the tautness in her jaw. “You do what you like,” she said, and then moved out into the hall.
He had promised to be there by eight; it was ten to when the cab dropped him outside the address. Hoffner rarely traveled to this part of the city-Steglitz-which, over time, had become the haven for Berlin’s bohemians. These were the leftists who knew nothing of workers’ marches or revolutionary tactics. They were the artists and writers and foreigners and Jews and homosexuals who had sliced out a sanctuary for themselves, off in the southwestern section of town. Of course, half of Charlottenburg could always be found slumming it at a reading or an opening, or simply at a cafe, watching the cultural animals at play. For the rich, art and intellect were always best observed from behind a glass partition, or at least from the safety of a nearby table. That way they could laugh at the absurdity of the lives around them without stepping in too close and chancing infection. An hour or so inside the menagerie, and then it was back to their grand houses, or perhaps a dice game up north with an even seedier crowd: that was always delicious.
Unlike the rich, Hoffner drew stares. He lit a cigarette and checked the address again. The shabby little building didn’t seem quite right. It was wedged in among far more serious structures, storefronts and the like with well-kept glass windows and high-quality stenciling on the doors. This one boasted none of that, and looked dark all the way up. Still, it was the number she had given him. Hoffner pressed at the bell and waited. It was too late, now, to turn and go.
He noticed that someone had done a halfhearted job of clearing out the snow: a frozen slab of speckled white rose to knee level just to the side of the door. Hoffner put it to use and sat. Three minutes on, he began to think that maybe the choice was being made for him-the cold was seeping through to the seat of his pants-when a figure appeared on the other side of the glass, coming down a set of stairs. The man was dressed in a neat suit and a bow tie, and had a drink in one hand. He opened the door.
Hoffner stood and said, “Good evening, I’m looking for-”
“You must be the policeman,” the man said jovially, too pleased with himself at his discovery. “You can’t be anything else.” He ushered Hoffner in and started up the stairs. “We’re up on the third floor. Not too crowded just yet. I’ll be very interested to hear what you think.”
The man talked nonstop the rest of the way up, confiding in Hoffner that he was less than thrilled with the current showing, but then, she was working in a new medium, and that always took time. Hoffner continued to nod as they came to a small door on the third floor and stepped through into a large studio that was humming with conversation. “Get yourself a drink,” said the man. “Take a look around. Very casual. Enjoy.” And with that, he pressed on into the crowd, having spotted someone far more interesting than Hoffner.